


i am not resigned (to the shutting away of loving hearts)

by badacts



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Claustrophobia, Except Not Actually, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5742880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badacts/pseuds/badacts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You didn’t really think Blofeld was done, did you?  </p><p>007 returns to MI6 as extra baggage, Madeleine Swann gets a job offer, and everyone has a weak spot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am not resigned (to the shutting away of loving hearts)

**Author's Note:**

> Indulging my love for Madeleine Swann and Eve Moneypenny, and also endgame 00Q.

The first thing James notices on returning to the flat is Madeleine’s measured voice, rapid and musical in her native French. That’s not unusual – for all she isn’t an extroverted woman, she is a friendly one, and she often invites around a select group of their neighbours here. However, the voice that answers isn’t either Adeline, the single mother of two from across the street, or Heloise from the adjoining building. It’s a man, measured and very slightly familiar for all that James can’t immediately place it.

“Madeleine?” he calls, his hand going to the holster at his hip. Five months hasn’t dulled his paranoia particularly, but Madeleine and he are a good fit in that respect. She still wears a good sharp switchblade at the small of her back, and although he hasn’t had an occasion to see her use it yet, he doesn’t doubt she could.

“Hello!” she hails back from the kitchen. She isn’t a good enough actor to feign that degree of cheerfulness if her visitor was about to kill her, which is reassuring. His hand goes back to his side as he follows the continued buzz of conversation through. Madeleine is leant up against the kitchen cupboards, a mug cradled between both of her hands. She’s the picture of elegant relaxation, lit up by the late morning Nice sun through the window.

Seated at the kitchen table, looking in every way the opposite of Madeleine, is the last person James would have expected to see on an autumnal Saturday in the south of France.

“Let me guess – you took the train,” James says to MI6’s Quartermaster, who is himself drinking coffee from a rude magenta mug that was the crassest colour from a mixed set. His peacoat – more elegant than his usual wear – is unbuttoned over a neat shirt and tie. He looks like he could have spontaneously transported from wherever MI6 is storing their resident technological geniuses these days.

“While that would indeed have been preferable, I don’t have the time to spend hours travelling across the continent. I flew,” Q replies. His gaze is, as ever, very different from what you would imagine if you only listened to his fine and fastidious tone of voice – direct and deep, examining you down to the core from behind his glasses.

“And what, exactly, inspired you to fly all this way? Business or pleasure?”

“If I were looking for pleasure, I dare say I wouldn’t find it here,” Q says, slightly cutting. It used to be fun to tease him a little, back before Q fell in love with James. Now it just feels cruel to make fun of a man who is blisteringly intelligent, skilled and brave just for the fact that he has terrible taste in men.

“He came to speak to me,” Madeleine fills in, shifting to put her mug down on the bench beside her. James can’t stop the spark of protectiveness that probably passes across his face before he can stop it, judging by her expression of wry amusement.

“Unfortunately you didn’t have the decency to just kill Oberhauser and have done with it,” Q says. Anyone else in his position could probably be written off as being far enough removed from the dirty business of murder that that statement is both naïve and cruel. However, Bond knows Q, and knows that the man is chillingly aware of the consequences of his actions. To Q, Bond and people like him are the weapons, and Q is the one aiming them. “That means we actually have to follow due process in order to lock him up for the rest of his miserable life.”

“You couldn’t just arrange a hit?”

“I hear that’s frowned upon in some circles.”

“Not amongst ours.”

“That aside, due process in this case includes evaluating the extent of the man’s psychopathy. He is, however, very difficult to evaluate. I think at this stage he’s well on the path to making the psych team mad themselves,” Q shrugs lightly.

“I’ve always maintained that you have to be a little mad yourself to want to be a psychotherapist,” James says, to Madeleine’s elegant little snort.

“An opinion that you and I share. The simple fact is that Doctor Swann is the only psychiatrist that we know of who has had any dealings with Oberhauser, as well as being a key witness to some of his crimes, not limited to his torture of you. She would be an asset to the case being built, as well as eminently qualified,” Q states. “So, I am here as an emissary of MI6 to beg your attendance to the man’s trial in London, Doctor Swann.”

“You seem a little overqualified to be travelling all this way for that,” Madeleine says, giving Q the full force of her own not-inconsiderable focus.

“Perhaps. Apparently my colleagues thought that I was the least dangerous person that could be trusted to pass on a message, and therefore the least likely to be murdered by Bond,” Q says, with an edge that suggests he could be joking but probably isn’t. He goes on with a more gentle tone, “Besides, you and I have met before. We consider your comfort, as well as your safety, to be highly important.”

“Which is why you’ve been tracking us for the last several months,” James cuts in before Madeleine can look into the eyes of what is actually an exceptionally dangerous man and mistake him for something else entirely.

“You know as well as I that detaining Oberhauser means little in terms of the entirety of SPECTRE – he might have been the current head, he might have been the one who was obsessed with you, but he certainly isn’t the only one who thinks that you’re a target, let alone Doctor Swann as White’s daughter. They’ll already have selected a new leader. You’ve gone up against them alone before, but you don’t have to. I – _we_ decided that long-distance surveillance would be the best in ensuring that your retirement wasn’t cut short by your untimely demise,” Q replies. “Also, you literally kept your MI6-issue cell phone. Surely if you hadn’t wanted to be tracked, you would have got rid of it?”

“Oh, I didn’t say I cared about being tracked,” James replies. “Just as I suppose you don’t care about cutting my retirement short just so that I can keep working.”

“Mister Bond, I’m not here for you. My only assigned task concerns Doctor Swann and Doctor Swann only. As far as me and the rest of MI6 are concerned, you are welcome to live out your retirement wherever you like, as long as you don’t do anything that would require you to be assassinated,” he says, with a little laugh that neither James nor Madeleine share.

“Madeleine, please, Q,” Madeleine herself cuts in. “I presume you’ll stay in the area before returning to London. I wonder if you might give me a few hours to consider before I give my answer.”

Q looks a little taken aback, as though so caught up in attempting to cut James into little pieces with his words that he’d forgotten Madeleine was in the room. Or maybe he’d just expected her to turn him down out of hand. “I – of course, Madeleine. Let me give you my details and I’ll leave you to think about it.”

He pulls a little notepad and pen from an inside pocket of his coat, having to rip the top sheet off to get a clean one. From what James can see, the top sheet is covered in what looks like a diagram surrounded by equations incomprehensible even in Q’s neat draftsman’s hand. He scratches out his cell phone number, not bothering to add his name or designation, before standing and passing it directly to Madeleine. His mug he puts beside the sink before turning to take in the both of them.

“If you’ll excuse me, Madeleine, Mister Bond,” he says.

“Let me walk you to the door,” James offers, moving out of his current position – still blocking the doorway – to usher Q out past him. Q doesn’t show any discomfort at having the infamous 007 at his back. But then, he probably wouldn’t.

When they reach the front door, Q turns back to him. A shaft of light from the tall narrow windows on either side of the entrance falls across his face, turning his eyes pale as green glass.

He mutters, “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.”

“You put on a good act,” James murmurs back. “Even I’m not really sure what you’re thinking. Though I can’t help but be sure that this wasn’t your idea.”

“Bond, don’t.” It appears the ‘mister’ is by the wayside now.

“You’d much rather that I stayed here, out of sight and out of mind.”

“Obviously,” Q growls, “You made a fool of me, more than once, with your bloody ‘favours’. But I am a professional, so therefore I can do what’s best to lock away a raving lunatic so he can’t continue to fuel international crime for years to come. Come with her, or don’t – I know you’ll do exactly as you want no matter what I say. Now, excuse me.”

James opens the door for him, waits for him to pass before saying, “You’re armed?”

He can make out a holster under Q’s coat – a Walther, probably, tucked under his arm. God only knows whether he’s a decent shot; if James had to guess from their very first interaction ( _sometimes a trigger has to be pulled_ ) he doubts it.

Q doesn’t pause, doesn’t do more than throw a glance over his shoulder. “Haven’t you heard? I have a very desirable skill set. Some people would kill for it.”

James watches him down the walk, the slim blade of a man hidden under a mop of hair and a slightly-too-big coat. It is nice, at least, to hear him actually say what he means for once. Once Q has disappeared from sight, he closes the door and walks back to the kitchen. Madeleine hasn’t moved except for to jump up onto the bench, sitting with her legs gently swinging.

“What a nice young man,” she says, though her eyes are laughing.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” James replies, insinuating himself between her thighs. She strokes one hand over his hip, the other wrapping around his wrist where he drops his hand to brace on the counter. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking you broke that poor boy’s heart, and now you’re being awfully cruel to him,” she says.

“He’s older than you,” he mutters, without bothering to put a note of warning in his voice. “Also, I think you’re guessing.”

“Even if I had been – which I’m not – that would have just confirmed it,” she teases lightly. Just as he can’t be bothered to be annoyed at her, she can’t be bothered with even a slightest touch of jealousy. After all, James left with her. Q isn’t for him, but Madeleine is. And James Bond is known as a very loyal man, when it counts.

“I’m going to go,” she interrupts his train of thought, moving to drape her arms over his shoulders.

He isn’t surprised. “You know that Blofeld’s only hoping that we’ll come back. He’s fixated on me, and Q was right – you are still a target. Putting us all in the same city is sure to go wrong, one way or another.”

“I do know that. But if I can, I want to see him convicted by a jury of his peers. I’m not afraid. Besides that, I’m bored,” she says, and before he can really feel the hit that that should be, “and so are you, no matter how wonderful this has been, because this isn’t the life for you. I was expecting it sooner, to be honest. So maybe this is something that we can both do.”

“That’s funny. I seem to remember you saying that the life of a killer _wasn’t_ for you.”

“It seems you’ve given me a taste for it,” she says right up against his lips, making her sweet kiss the balm. “Besides, I’ve always had the life of a killer. It’s just taken me this long to stop running from it.”

  

* * *

 

Madeleine hasn’t lost her love for luxury travel in the last few months, even with increased exposure. There’s something to be said for being offered a glass of champagne as soon as she takes her seat in business class.

James sits like he was made for this, in a pair of slacks and the periwinkle shirt she loves on him with its collar loose at his throat. She has gotten good at reading him, but she can’t quite pick what he thinks about their situation. She doubts, somehow, that he’s made it all the way to the logical conclusion based on their beginnings: that he can’t go back without falling back into the life that owns him, where she can’t necessarily follow him.

Madeleine Swann has always done what she wants, even under the threat of death. It’s just that right now she hasn’t decided exactly what that is.

She does know that neither of them belong in Nice, living a life of leisure. They’re both people who need a purpose, even if it is possible Madeleine has lost her grip on hers.

Falling in love is beautiful, and blinding, and apparently leaves you a little disorientated into the bargain. Madeleine doesn’t regret falling in love with James Bond, not in the slightest, but the whirlwind is slowing and she’s about to throw down all anchors because she no desire to lose all of herself to this darling, dangerous man.

Which, speaking of being in love with James, turns her mind to Q. Whoever was in charge of things like this at MI6 had put them on the same plane, though Q is far enough in front of them to be mostly out of sight in his seat. The seat next to him is unoccupied, presumably on purpose.

When they’ve gone through the process of take off and are cruising at altitude, the seatbelt signs off, Madeleine turns to look at James where he’s perusing his tablet.

“Do you mind?” she asks, indicating their erstwhile travelling partner with a tilt of her head. He raises an eyebrow at her.

“If you like,” he says, “ But watch out. He’s prickly as a hedgehog even when he isn’t under pressure.”

“What makes you think I’m going to put pressure on him?” Madeleine replies, freeing herself from her seatbelt and ignoring the quiet snort from James. She walks down the aisle to drop very lightly into the seat beside Q. He has headphones in that are ostensibly plugged into an iPod, though she’s willing to bet he isn’t actually listening to music, and his eyes are closed until she has made herself comfortable.

When he does open them, she remembers what it is about this skinny man that is strangely arresting, even when he looks a little grey with strain.

“Pas mal?” she asks, resisting the urge to push his hair back off of his forehead like a very misplaced mother figure.

“It’s probably not what you think,” Q attempts, voice very soft, lifting a hand to adjust his glasses that doesn’t shake. Probably purely out of control, Madeleine imagines. He seems like the type: she would know, being cut from the same cloth.

“I wouldn’t dare presume,” she replies. Her job has taught her that people are frightened for all kinds of reasons, from the most basic and heart-rending to the utterly fantastical. It’s impossible to guess from watching them which it’ll turn out to be – sometimes only words can give her an insight, and this is one of those times.

“It’s not being out of control, or the obviously tiny possibility that something could go wrong,” he explains, without a stutter, closing his eyes again. “It’s knowing that, for better or worse, I can’t get out. I’m trapped in here.”

“Ah. You’re claustrophobic, Q.”

“Rather.” The corner of his mouth quirks up before he irons it out. “You’re curious. I can tell.”

“You have better instincts that most of the people involved in your field I’ve met,” she observes.

“Hm. That’s why I got my position. There were others equally qualified, though perhaps none in my particular field,” he says, obviously referring to computers, “but all of them were high-level sociopaths with no people skills whatsoever. Apparently that’s not what they look for when promoting executives. So now I have to deal with an entire department full of sociopaths instead.”

“Statistically it’s unlikely they’re actually all sociopaths,” Madeleine notes.

“I’m sure you’re right, but you haven’t met them,” Q says, with a little smirk again. “What is it about me that you want to know?”

“Probably nothing that you can sum up in words,” she says, with a shrug that he can’t see. “Besides…why MI6? And why James?”

That makes his eyes shoot open, focussing on her suddenly and absolutely. Clearly he hadn’t expected her to ask anything to do with the man drinking a ridiculous cocktail several rows behind them.

“There’s a loyalty that you all have, to your country and each other. It seems all encompassing, and I suppose I want to understand it,” she asks when he doesn’t answer immediately. He sighs a little through his nose, gaze going distant.

“I suppose it would be difficult for you to understand, when you’ve spent so long running,” he muses. “What do you think of, when you think of home?”

 _Smells, tastes, sounds. Her father. The occasional attempted murder_. “People.”

“I can’t speak for the others, only myself. For me, it was about people, the ones I love and would die to protect. MI6 was a way where I could do that to the best of my abilities, even if none of them even knew what I did for a living.”

“And James?” Madeleine can’t help herself.

“It’s human nature that we admire in others the traits that we hold important to us. Have you ever met a more loyal man than James Bond?”

“I suspect I might be looking at one,” Madeleine replies, meeting his eyes very carefully. Q can only hold her gaze for a moment before he looks away, a flush creeping across the bridge of his nose.

“You said it yourself – we’re all the same kind of person,” he says, and what he doesn’t say is, _You’re no different, Madeleine Swann._

He isn’t wrong. Madeleine doesn’t like to indulge in lying, especially not to herself.

“You know yourself very well – that’s part and parcel of your job, which you’re very good at. It’s what to do next that has you caught up,” Q says, and he sounds a little kind. “I’ll give you a hint: you’ve had certainty in running for a long time, even when you were at some ridiculous health clinic in the middle of the mountains. It’s the sensation of coming to a standstill that has you unsettled. But you’ll get your momentum back. You’re a person who needs a purpose, and I suspect you’ll find yours before you know it. As to whether it’ll be a place or a person, though, I can’t say.”

She’s fascinated by his take on her. “You’ve thought about me?”

“It’s like I said – I have people skills,” he says with the shadow of a smirk, “Also, I know a thing or two about running, and even more about stopping.”

“Aftermath,” Madeleine says, a one-word agreement. _You’re no different, Madeleine Swann._


End file.
